HIS THUMB is arched out, but this hitchhiker seems unlike other men of the road. The lithe, clean-shaven young man jogging toward my waiting car bears little resemblance to the rough-hewn, roadsmart deadbeats and parolees the Georgia interstate routinely serves up in 1987.

Orlando Bloom as Legolas the elf in Lord of the Rings

“Hi,” I smile as he gets in. “I’m Paul. Do you mind buckling up? It’s a rule of mine.”

“No problem,” he replies. “I’m Dennis.” Dennis carries no luggage. His blonde mane is silky, his features defined, his complexion pure. He is, in a word, beautiful. In a jail cell, he wouldn’t last long. (Afternote, 2013: He looked rather Orlando Bloom's Legolas in the film trilogy Lord of the Rings.)

I accelerate into traffic. Fifty, 55, 60. Now begins the ritual small talk between hitcher and host.

“Fine.” I enter the booth, quarter in hand. He waits just outside the open door. I dial my long-distance code. “What’s her number?” I ask. He tells me. “What’s her name?” He tells me.

After several loud clicks, her phone rings. It is the coarse ring of a rural phone network from a bygone time. Then, I hear the tired voice of a woman well past 50. “Hello?”

“Hi, Ms. Davis? My name is Paul. I’m calling to let you know I met your son Dennis.”

“Oh, my god, is he dead?”

“No, no, he’s fine. He wanted me to tell you that he loves you. In fact,” I say, waving the five at Dennis, “he wants to tell you himself.”

I thrust the phone into his hand; before he can protest, we trade places. “Hi, Ma?…Yeah, I’m fine.… I dunno, a few miles from Atlanta.…Just some man who gave me a ride.”

I press the bill into his hand. “Talk as long as you want,” I whisper, and wave goodbye.

Minutes later, I arrive at my desk. I relate the encounter to my friend Susanne, a former social worker. “The boy is almost certainly schizophrenic,” she explains. “He needs to be on medication. The system has let him down.”

I clutch her hand. “Susanne, tell me I did the right thing.”

She clutches my hand back. “You did what you could. You were put there for a reason.”

Weeks later, the phone bill arrives. I tear open the envelope. Mother and son had two years of catching up; at 25 cents a minute, the tab for their call would probably top $10. I scan the state column. Kentucky…Kentucky…Bingo.

$1.25? That’s pocket change. Is this possible? I sit, wondering how a son, after two lost years, could hang up on his mother after just five minutes. I wonder, to this day, if I did enough.

Today, as a husband and father, I yield to my family’s pleas. No longer do I stop for the men who walk the highways. “Let other drivers take care of them,” I’m advised.

Which would be fine. If they did. If we all took care of our Dennises.